


a hand is a voice

by rainny_days



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Relationship Negotiation, Touch-Starved, brief depiction of a kiss where one character is kiss-averse and the other is unaware, jonathan sims is a good boyfriend, kiss-averse!jon sims, martin blackwood is a good boyfriend, they're traumatized and figuring it out!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24716881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainny_days/pseuds/rainny_days
Summary: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, and the intricacies of touch.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 36
Kudos: 393





	a hand is a voice

**Author's Note:**

> a blm commission fic for @arguenot, who requested affection negotiation with kiss-averse!jm!! for a while there working on this fic was the only thing that kept my serotonin levels up tbh.
> 
> title from richard siken's _the language of birds_ : 'a hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not, and the hand wants to do something useful'

The thing is, Martin has always known that Jon likes to be touched.

It’s a side effect of being Martin Blackwood: the ability to read the small tics and microexpressions in peoples’ features, the little ways in which they give themselves away. It’s what comes with him, through years of learning how to take care of a mother who would rather wither away than tell him what she needs. A byproduct of years spent in silence, slowly coming to understand when someone needs help and when you leave the door closed, when to speak and when to make yourself as small and quiet as possible. It’s his job, after all, and has been for far longer than he’s ever been a researcher or assistant or archivist.

All this is to say that when Tim slings an arm around their new boss’ shoulders and Jon leans into the touch for a fraction of a second before shoving him away, Martin notices. When Sasha leans into him on one of the rare occasions he deigns to go get drinks with them and Jon almost looks disappointed before he mumbles something neutral to Sasha’s apology, Martin notices that, too. 

And when Martin hands him a file and Jon’s fingers (long, with bitten-down nails and pen calluses, so much more careful and steady than Martin’s own) twitch like they almost want to touch Martin’s hand? He _definitely_ notices that.

He doesn’t do anything about it, of course, because there is nothing for him to do. His (unwilling) knowledge of the fact that his horrible, acerbic boss might just be a little touch-starved isn’t really any of his business, after all. And besides, Jon has always been very clear about the fact that he doesn’t want anyone - but particularly Martin, who is fumbling and incompetent and just generally everything Jon despises - around for any longer or any closer than absolutely necessary.

So Martin watches, and he sees, and he quietly files this small, vital piece of knowledge in the back of his mind, telling himself that it will only gather dust there. And when he hands Jon his tea, he is careful not to let their fingers brush.

* * *

By the Panopticon, loving Jon has become such an inextricable force within Martin that it felt like one of those fundamental facts that made up the whole of who he was. Martin Blackwood: clunky, unwieldy, hopelessly stubborn, terribly in love with Jonathan Sims.

The fact that Jon, by all accounts, seemed to also be terribly in love with him still seemed too miraculous to be true. Still, Martin was never the type to let go of good things when they were presented to him.

In the first few days after the Lonely, Martin hates himself a little. Whenever he’d imagined being with Jon - and now, he thinks, perhaps it would not be wrong of him to admit that he’d imagined it a fair amount of times - he’d always thought that it would mean that he would finally be able to take care of him. That he would finally be able to reach out and, if not be welcomed with open arms, be at least grudgingly accepted.

Instead, the first time Jon touches him after the fog - just a glancing brush of his fingers to Martin’s forehead, to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes - Martin finds himself flinching back. He catches himself mid-movement, but Jon is perceptive enough, even without the help of the Beholding, to read the startled fear in his eyes.

“Oh-” Jon says, a flash of bewildered sadness flashing through his eyes before they make room for a quiet sort of sorrow. “I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t think-”

“No!” Martin says, hurriedly. “It’s- fine. I’m- please don’t-” _stop touching me_ , he doesn’t finish, because all of a sudden he’s terrified of the possibility that it might not be true. There’s nothing he wants less in this moment than to give Jon false hope, to make him look any more crushed than he is. “Just,” he says, helplessly.

Jon watches him as he flounders, patient in a way that Martin knows has been cultivated in him somewhere in the time that they’ve spent apart. They’ve spent _so long_ apart. “What do you need?” Jon says, a hand still curled in Martin’s, the way it’s been since the Lonely. That’s still good, Martin is relieved to realize. The shape of Jon’s hand in his still registers as safe in the deepest parts of his mind.

Martin lets himself think about it, knowing that Jon would rather have a true answer than a comforting one. “I…this is nice,” he says quietly, squeezing Jon’s hand in his. “I like this. I don’t- I’m not sure what else.” he hesitates. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Jon says, surprisingly fierce. His voice softens again immediately. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I just want to help.”

“You help,” Martin says firmly. “You always help.”

Jon looks at him for a long moment, then holds out his free hand, palm up. He looks- careful. Cautious. Martin tries to smile at him, and slides his own hand on top of his, marvels at the almost-forgotten warmth of a hand beneath his own. Even before the Lonely, he hadn’t had anything like _this_.

“We should get some rest,” Jon says, and carefully leads Martin to the cots inside the Archives. Some part of Martin wonders if it’s safe here, mere steps above the place where he’d almost been lost completely, but most of him is just tired. He thinks that this is the safest he’ll feel, now, with Jon carefully tucking his bundle of straw-thin limbs around him. Jon had always run cold, but right now he’s the warmest thing that Martin knows.

It’s safe here because Jon’s here, Martin thinks, and there’s something comforting in the realization that there’s nothing he wants more in the world than for Jon to feel that way with him too.

* * *

Learning that Jon loves him was a sharp, instantaneous thing, a knife that cut through the cold and fog and tugged him back into the light. Understanding the shape of Jon’s love for him, outside of dramatic declarations and ninth-hour rescues, though- that took a little longer to learn.

It comes in bits and pieces: the way Jon hums at night, because Martin couldn’t sleep in the silence. The way he suffers through Martin cooing over every grazing cow on the road, stopping the car without even being asked. The way he looks in Martin’s hoodies, refusing to acknowledge the way they dwarf him even as he tugs the sleeves over his knuckles.

The way he’s so careful around Martin, always hovering for a moment before touching him, always giving him a chance to shy away.

These days, Martin stays more often than not.

It takes weeks before Martin musters the courage to initiate contact. Not because he is scared of touching Jon, but because he needed time to remember how his joints work. To look down at his palms and remind himself that _these are your hands, they are for touching_. 

It’s hard work, because the more time passes, the more Martin wants to touch Jon- the slight curves at the divots of his eyes, the tender dips of his elbows, the sharp ends of his collarbones. Martin wants to touch the edges and corners of Jon, because he knows that he will never cut himself on them.

When he learns his own skin enough to risk trying, it’s a quiet, unobtrusive moment. He watches Jon stirring red sauce over the stove, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Neither he nor Jon are the best cooks, but Jon has an edge on him from living with Georgie, learning how to cook from the love of another person. He still approaches the act of cooking with caution, though, like some part of him thinks that his cooking will come to life and consume him instead. If it weren’t for the past few years proving his fears, if not right, then at least possible, Martin would find it hilarious. As it is, he still finds it terribly endearing.

Jon looks down at the pot, glasses perched precariously low on his nose, hair falling loose from his ponytail to frame his face. Martin quietly checks in with his hands - still there, still his - and then, as carefully as he can, reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind Jon’s ear.

For a moment, Jon smiles absently, as if this were a thing they did all the time. And then he pauses. Blinks. Looks at Martin.

Martin resists the urge to shy away from the gaze, and smiles at Jon. “…hi,” he says, after a moment. There is a momentary pause, and then Jon smiles back.

“Hello,” he says, and the moment is over, as quiet and precious as a thousand moments before and after.

* * *

After that, it becomes easier, though it’s never quite as easy as it was before. The way Jon responds to his touch, Martin finds, is almost more precious than the act of touch itself. Martin has always seen the ways that Jon craved touch, but it felt different to witness him unfurl like this, each gesture of affection easier than the last. It doesn’t take long before Martin is hard-pressed to even remember a time when Jon wasn’t like this, so happy whenever he gets to touch Martin, even in the smallest of ways.

Martin had always imagined being the person who could give Jon this kind of comfort, to be the one that Jon allowed to soothe this well-hidden desire. It’s heady to finally be allowed that: to be the person that Jon trusts enough to lean into when he lays a hand on the curve of Jon’s neck. To have Jon curl against him on the sofa without awkwardness, his head burrowed in the soft swell of Martin’s stomach like he wants to make a home there. 

He wants for Jon to make a home of him, is the thing. And that makes the days when Jon hesitates - the days when Martin hesitates - harder.

That’s why it hurts, a little, when days pass, and Jon never kisses him.

It’s such a small thing, in the scheme of things. Martin knows it’s enough to be grateful for that he has the privilege of touching Jon at all- at Jon allowing himself to touch Martin back, most days. But. But it feels like Jon is still holding back for him. Still letting some part of him wither, however small, because he thinks Martin isn’t ready.

Sometimes Martin tries: tilting his head down slightly to make the difference in their heights more negligible. Touching their foreheads together, right before they watch each other fall asleep. Leaning into the press of Jon’s face into his hair when they cuddle on the couch. Small things that try to tell Jon that it’s okay, that he would be fine with it. At first, he thinks it doesn’t work because of Martin’s own inexperience, because how would someone like Martin know how to get someone to kiss him? But other times- other times he catches a glimpse of something like fear in Jon’s eyes, and he knows better. Martin’s always been good at reading people. At reading Jon.

* * *

It’s a bad day when it happens. Not a Bad Day - the kind where Martin is deafened by the noises of his own body functioning, the kind where Jon spends the day in the yard because the house walls look like the inside of a coffin - but one a little too close to it for comfort. It’s the kind of day where Jon and Martin get a little cabin-sick and revert, just a little, back to their old habits. Jon is a little more snappish than usual. Martin bites back his own retorts and lets them simmer, instead. It’s that kind of day that makes the frayed edges of Martin’s insecurities snap when Jon hesitates again before he touches him, because he’s _so sick_ , so exhausted of being treated like he’s glass. 

So when Jon’s hand hesitates over Martin’s as they debate over the kitchen counter about dinner, Martin takes his hand in his own, and leans down to brush his lips over Jon’s.

He expects Jon’s surprise, expects the sudden quickening of Jon’s pulse under his thumbs. It’s the grimace that Jon doesn’t quite hide quickly enough that he doesn’t expect. The quicksilver _upset-fear-resignation_ in his expression that surprises him.

“Jon-?” Martin starts, but Jon blinks, and is back to a reasonable facsimile of his normal self.

“I just think that a stir-fry’s fine, we don’t have to buy anything,” Jon recovers, his voice only a little more awkward than usual.

“Jon,” Martin says again, stepping closer to him. Jon turns to the fridge, opens it. His face is bent over a handful of bell peppers, and Martin feels his stomach sink with the familiar terror of oh, I did something wrong, and I don’t understand why. 

“We still have the pork left over from a few days ago, so we should finish that before it goes bad,” Jon continues, stubborn and resolute.

Martin hears his voice waver slightly as he tries again: “ _Jon_ , what-”

Jon looks up at him, and something in Martin’s face makes him smile a little, sad, as he answers. “It’s not important, Martin.” 

_But I don’t know what I did_ , Martin wants to say, and the fear of it is almost strong enough to choke him. But whatever it is- it upset Jon, and it was because of Martin. He doesn’t think he can hurt Jon more, isn’t willing to risk it.

“Alright,” he hears himself say, quietly, and it’s almost worth it for the way Jon’s shoulders relax in relief.

Jon is brave, is the thing. He’s braver than Martin, and has gone through far too much with him to let something like this erode the foundations that they’ve so painstakingly built. So when they go to bed that night, after a stilted dinner, Jon’s the one that reaches out for Martin, a question in his eyes. He’s the one that tucks his head beneath Martin’s chin and curls himself close. And that gives Martin courage as well, courage enough to whisper in Jon’s silver-streaked hair: “Can I- you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But can I know what I did wrong?”

Jon shakes his head into Martin’s neck. “It’s not that you did anything wrong-” he begins, and Martin frowns a little.

“Don’t, Jon,” he says, a little more stern than he was going for. “It’s alright if I did. I just. I’d just like to know why, so I- so I can make you happy.”

“You _do_ make me happy,” Jon sounds a little petulant as he says it, and it almost makes Martin smile.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says. “Jon, if you still don’t want to talk about it-”

“Ask me tomorrow,” Jon says. “I’ll tell you, but- just, ask me then.”

Martin runs a loose hand through Jon’s hair, takes comfort in the way Jon still leans into it, making a sound almost like a purr. “Alright,” he says again, a little steadier this time. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know, beloved,” Jon says. Then: “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Martin whispers back, and marvels at the easiness of it all, despite everything.

* * *

“It’s not that important, really,” Jon says again, when Martin asks him the next day over breakfast. He thinks they’re making a tradition of it: important things happening over meals, and wonders at the fact that they’ve been together long enough to start traditions at all. “It’s just that…”

Martin waits for a moment. Then another. “‘That’…?” he prompts.

“It’s just that I…” Jon grimaces slightly, looking down. “Find the texture. Of kisses. Unpleasant.”

Martin blinks. “Unpleasant,” he repeats. “The texture?”

“Of the…” Jon gestures to the general area of his lips. “I’m not utterly revolted,” he adds quickly, and Martin almost wants to laugh at how bad the lie is. He’s never met someone more incapable of deception than his archivist. “It’s just- hm.”

“Gross?” Martin suggests, thinking about Melanie’s voice saying _he doesn’t, not ever_. He presses back a smile when Jon visibly fights not to agree. Martin sighs a little, putting down his mug of tea. “Jon- why didn’t you just tell me?”

“…it never came up,” Jon says weakly, looking a little hesitant. That hesitance kills any humor Martin had felt at the situation, and he reaches over, curls his fingers in the spaces between Jon’s.

“You know,” he begins, a little hesitant. “Jon, you know I’d never be mad at you for this, right?”

It’s at least a little gratifying when Jon immediately shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be mad,” Jon agrees. “But I suppose I wanted to avoid- disappointing you, if at all possible.”

“And you just thought it’d never come up?” Martin points out gently. But he knows the way Jon works now, knows the way he probably filed the possibility of it in the nebulous box labelled _for future consideration_ in his mind. “Jon-”

“Like I said, I’m not completely opposed to it, so if you really wanted to-”

“Jon-”

“As long as I have prior notice, so I may ready myself-”

“ _Jon_ -”

“And honestly, it’s not-”

“Jon!”

Jon stops. Looks at Martin, who takes a breath. “First of all,” he says, turning over his words in his mind. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.”

“You don’t-”

“Jon,” Martin levels him with a look. “I upset you, and I didn’t have to. I was- I was just sick of. Well. I misread things, and I did something wrong. I get to apologize for that.” he smiles when Jon doesn’t try to interrupt this time. “Second, you don’t have to- pretend. It’s fine.”

Jon frowns. “But you-” he hesitates. “You want to.”

“I also want to get you to read Keats with me, but you wouldn’t be insistent on that, I bet.”

“Keats-” 

Martin stops him before he can continue. “Please don’t insult one of the greatest poets of all time when we’re having a serious conversation,” Jon does the expression he makes when he’s pretending not to pout, and Martin relaxes a little more. “I’m serious, Jon. It’s fine. I was- I thought you were holding back because of me, not the other way around. If you don’t- want to, then it’s fine. I’ll be okay. We’ve been doing fine so far.”

It seems to take Jon a moment to register the fact that he’s serious. “You-” there’s something quietly grateful in his voice, and Martin wants to frown at the fact that Jon had to even question his acceptance in the first place. “You’re sure.”

“I am.”

“If you change your mind-”

“- we’ll figure something out,” Martin says. “We always do.”

When Jon smiles at him then, a slow, blossoming thing, Martin doesn’t hold back the urge to lean across the table and engulf him in an embrace.

* * *

There are many things Martin hates about the apocalypse, but he thinks he hates how _weird_ things are the most.

“Come on, give us a kiss,” Helen says, all saccharine sweetness and amusement. 

Jon glares at her. “No,” he says, not hesitating in the slightest.

“Not even a little one?” Helen taps the end of a sharp finger to her chin. “Now, now, where’s your sense of adventure? Of romance?”

Martin rolls his eyes, rapidly losing patience. “The end of the world was bad enough,” he mutters. “But why is everyone so obsessed with our relationship?”

Jon grimaces in commiseration. “I suppose trekking across the apocalypse together isn’t sufficiently adventurous nor romantic?” he says, dry as a bone.

Helen laughs, the noise making Martin a little lightheaded as usual. He holds onto Jon’s hand a little tighter. “Archivist, you aren’t neglecting your boyfriend, are you?” she sounds delighted at the prospect.

Martin looks at Jon, who bristles at her words, still sensitive, even after all this time, to the idea of not being quite enough for Martin. Before Jon can snap back, he makes a show of sighing loudly, bringing his free hand to his face to press a firm kiss to the palm before pressing it against Jon’s lips, muffling him. “Is this good enough for you?” he asks dryly. 

Helen makes another dizzying noise of delight. “How cute!” she says, and thankfully drops the subject.

Later, when they’re (more or less) alone again, Jon looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “What?” Martin asks.

“That’s a new form of affection,” Jon says, sounding amused. 

Martin snorts. “It’s just to get her off our back,” he says, dismissing Jon’s words as a tease. He blinks when he feels Jon shift beside him, and looks over to see Jon bring a palm to his own lips, pressing a brief kiss to it before cupping Martin’s cheek. 

“I think I quite enjoy this, actually,” Jon says, a gleam of smugness growing in his eyes as he watches Martin flush to his roots.

“You-” Martin splutters, half-embarrassed and half-delighted. 

Jon laughs, ruins and terrors and incomprehensible beings surrounding him, and Martin allows himself to laugh with him.


End file.
